


Hoops

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hobbits. Basketball.</p><p>Basketball??? Um, yeah... Isn't that the first thing that popped into your head when you thought of a sport hobbits were likely to play?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hoops

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Waymeet's "The Sporting Life Challenge" (May 2006)

“How difficult can it be?” Pippin scoffed. “You bounce the ball, you throw the ball, you stay inside the lines. A child could do it.”

“It's a bit more complicated than that!” Faramir snorted his amusement into his mug of ale. “For one thing, there's the matter of height. The basket rims are 10 feet off the ground. Now granted, Master Pippin, you and Merry have sprouted up considerably... but you are still on the short side compared to, say, myself or King Elessar. Your little legs--”

“My little _what_?” Pippin sputtered, furious red splotches flaring on his cheeks.

“No offense intended!” Faramir swiftly held up a placating hand as heads in the crowded pub turned to curiously regard their table. “I simply meant that my longer legs will cross a court much faster. My arms' reach is greater than yours. As a man, I have an unfair advantage over hobbits. You wouldn't stand a chance. And _that_ is why a game between us is out of the question. Is that not the case, Merry?”

Merry leaned back in his chair to give due thought to the question. “I don't know about that,” he said finally, fragrant wreaths of pipeweed curling around his head.

Pippin beamed and patted his cousin's hand.

“Sam,” Faramir appealed, “You're a level-headed fellow...”

Sam blushed and modestly took a sip of his ale. “It sounds like fun,” he mumbled.

“Frodo?” Faramir turned to the final member of their party. “I am trying to save your cousins and Sam from the embarrassment of a serious mismatch. Surely you understand? I would not see you hobbits made the laughing stock of Minas Tirith. The king and his lady would never forgive me.”

“Sam is right,” Frodo said quietly. “It sounds like fun.”

“You're never thinking that _you_ are playing?” Sam exclaimed, obviously distraught at the very notion.

“And why not? My feet are well mended -- yours suffered worse and yet you do not hesitate to play. This?” Frodo held up his bandaged hand. “I can bounce a ball as well with one hand as I can the other.”

Blue and hazel eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. Little save his master's well being would ever bring a word of protest to Sam's lips, but all present knew he was as fierce as a mother warg with an injured pup in matters regarding Frodo Baggin's recovery. Clearly, that protective instinct extended to protecting Frodo from himself.

Frodo smiled. Instantly, Sam's gaze fell, the battle lost. He would sell his soul to see that smile... and Frodo knew it. _Still_ , Sam grumbled to himself, _I can't let him think he always gets his way._

“One turn of the hourglass,” Sam said firmly. “Not a grain of sand more. And if you feel yourself tiring--”

“I will have the good sense to withdraw from the game,” Frodo promised. “Don't worry, Sam. I know what I am doing.”

Faramir felt his stomach do a slow and sour roll.

~*~

The hobbits met for a practice session bright and early the next morning. A drowsy Pippin grumbled that it was an indecent hour to bestir themselves from their warm beds, especially given the late night they had just enjoyed. But Merry was quick to point out that it was entirely Pippin's fault that they found themselves in this situation. After all, it was Pippin who had pressed for the match to be tomorrow evening. Why, the hobbits scarcely had time to learn the rules – never mind the skills – that they would need to know to play the game.

“And since drastic times call for drastic measures,” Merry concluded, “if need be, we'll forgo second breakfast.”

Pippin shivered and gave the ball a desultory bounce. It rebounded off of Sam's big toe and rolled to rest halfway down the floor. And a very large floor it was too...

The hobbits stared at the ball in silence.

“Um,” said Pippin in a small voice.

“Let's start with a little one on one,” Frodo suggested, retrieving a second ball from the rack. “Pippin, you and Merry practice over there. Sam, let's see if you can take me.”

Frodo started bouncing the ball and turned away, thus missing both the amused glance Pippin shot Merry and the telling blush that stained Sam's cheeks.

It soon became apparent that Pippin and Merry were an even match. Their game was vigorous, and at the end of a twenty minute skirmish, the score was tied. Frodo cheerfully conceded his game to Sam at the ten minute mark, by which time his score had fallen behind the younger hobbit's by a whopping fourteen points. Granted, Frodo was lighter on his feet and much quicker than Sam, but his throws lacked power and frequently fell short of the basket. Sam threw hard and with deadly accuracy.

Pairing Frodo with Merry saw much the same result. Merry couldn't catch Frodo once he made a clean break away, but nevertheless his score steadily climbed ahead of his faster-footed cousin. Pippin took more shots at the basket than did Sam, but they were mostly rim-shots that caused him to howl with glee and then moan in despair as they failed. In contrast, Sam sank a basket every time he succeeded in stealing the ball.

Foreseeing the same results, Frodo bowed out of a practice run with Pippin. Instead he sat on the sidelines, watching as Merry and Pippin outran Sam, and cheering every time the sturdy hobbit outmaneuvered the cousins and scored. Sam won the uneven battle with two points to spare.

“I-I... think... that's more than enough practice for me,” Sam wheezed, flopping down on a bench and gratefully accepting the dipper of water Frodo offered.

“I quite agree,” Merry gasped. “Let's save... a little energy.. for the match.”

“This is... harder than I thought,” Pippin admitted, lifting up his shirt-tail and flapping it to cool his over-heated face.

“That it is, Master Took,” a soft voice replied. “Though I am most impressed by your noble efforts.”

The hobbits turned to find Faramir and his teammates standing behind them, obviously set to commence their own practice session.

“Aye,' laughed one of the larger players. “But you've yet to learn what it is to face a real opponent. Mayhap you'd care to find that out now, here, where there are no prying eyes to see you. May well be, it would save you a public humiliation tomorrow.”

“The hobbits are weary, Anborn,” Faramir snapped. “'Twould not be fair--”

“'Tis not fair in any case,” Anborn argued. “Look at them – and look at us.”

“Are we to lift them up so they can reach the basket?”

“Damrod!”

“There is no honour in this,” Damrod muttered.

“If you are afraid to meet our challenge, say so plainly!” Pippin said angrily. “I, for one, am not too weary to play against you now.”

“Nor am I.” Merry stood shoulder to shoulder with his cousin. Without comment, Sam and Frodo moved to stand side by side.

“Very well then,” Faramir sighed. “I will referee this match. Beregond and Damrod, play defense. Mablung, you take the jump.”

“The what?” Sam frowned.

It was all downhill from there.

Not even Merry or Pippin could leap high enough to touch the ball. The humans easily gained possession and thundered down the floor, leaving the hobbits still standing at the centre line. Every time a hobbit did manage to lay hold of the ball, he found himself quickly surrounded by a wall of towering men. Twice, Pippin was knocked to the floor. But the final straw for Sam came when, a few minutes later, Frodo also took a tumble. Sam stopped the men dead in their tracks with the force of his glare.

“This game is over,” he said coldly. “If you cannot abide by your own rules of no physical contact, then--”

“I'm all right, Sam.” Frodo rose and placed a warm hand on Sam's arm.

“It's scarcely our fault if we trip over you,” Beregond muttered and Anborn chuckled nervously.

“It is as I feared,” Faramir said slowly. “You stand no chance, my friends. Please, I beg you, let this be an end to the matter.”

“No,” Frodo said softly. “We simply need to rest. The challenge will go forward as planned. Tomorrow evening, we will meet again.”

“But, Mr. Frodo--”

“Tomorrow, Sam,” Frodo stated firmly.

As Sam knew all too well, it was no use arguing with a Baggins who had made up his mind. So he settled for playing mother hen instead, and whisked his master off the field for an early lunch and a long soak in the bath.

~*~

As might be expected, news of a game between hobbits and men spread like wild fire.

Faramir glumly surveyed the the lively throng filing into the stands, and desperately wished for some means to put an end to the travesty before it went any farther. Unfortunately, the hobbits were being annoyingly stubborn, and flatly refused to back down. Nor would they accept any compromise. Basket rims would remain set at the proscribed mark. They would not reduce the field of play to a half court.

Faramir brightened. Perhaps this was the key. Playing by the rules. The hobbits were a player short... perhaps they would have to forfeit the game?

He might have known that there was no shortage of volunteers to help fulfill the hobbits' team quota.

“I will play,” Gandalf offered, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. But Anborn and Damrod set up such a hue and cry about magic trickery that the wizard laughed and stepped aside.

“I will assist the hobbits,” Legolas declared.

“As will I,” Eowyn said, with a smile for Faramir that promised no quarter would be asked or given.

“My thanks, my lord and lady,” Merry gave a little bow, “But our cousin has already chosen the fifth player for our team.”

All eyes turned as Frodo entered the court in the company of the king.

“Well that certainly even the odds,” Mablung murmured, bowing low in greeting.

“Ah, no,” Aragorn laughed. “I am not the chosen one. I am simply here to bestow my blessings on the players.”

“But, then, who?” Faramir glanced about in some confusion.

“That would be me,” Gimli grinned, doffing his helmet.

~*~

“To call it a defeat would be a kindness,” Gimli grumbled, cautiously easing his weary feet out of his boots. “It was a massacre.”

“Never underestimate a hobbit,” Pippin chirped, cheerfully counting out his winnings between hearty gulps of ale.

“And never place a wager against one,” Faramir drawled, dropping a fistful of golden coins on the wooden table. Casually, he pulled up a chair to join the victors at their celebration. “Truth, gentlemen? Have we men been made fools of by masters of the game?”

“No,” Merry smiled. “But it is true that we had the advantage from the start.”

“How so, Master Merry?”

“Why, we had Frodo on our team.” Merry tilted a frothy ale his cousin's way in acknowledgment. “He figured out a foolproof plan in no time flat.”

“Do what hobbits do best,” Frodo said softly. “Stay close to the ground.”

“And slip under your taller opponent's guard,” Faramir smiled ruefully, remembering how his teammates' arms had swept though empty air while a hobbit cleverly scooted underneath their defensive pose.

“You can't touch what you can't reach,” Pippin nodded, miming bouncing a ball scant inches off the ground.

“Unless you are a contortionist,” Faramir agreed, ruefully rubbing his aching back.

“Stand firm,” Gimli chortled.

“Receive free shots when the clumsy human trips over you,” Faramir grumbled.

“Let Frodo carry the ball up the floor,” said Merry, and Pippin nodded vigorously.

“And then, of course, there is the most important rule of all...” Frodo murmured.

“Pass the ball to Sam!” Merry, Pippin and Gimli chorused.

Sam blushed prettily. “Team work,” he mumbled into his ale. “Your brilliant strategy. That's all it took, plain and simple. And that's a fact.”

“No.” Frodo lightly rested his injured hand on Sam's arm, his eyes luminous as he warmly regarded his friend. “It was so much more than that. Have you forgotten that Frodo wouldn't get far without his Sam?”


End file.
